The Face of Death by Cody McFadyen

you’re sure you can get away with them. It’s about rapport, so lies are a deal breaker. Watch for emotional triggers and give them a nice, wide berth.”
    “Sure, simple.”
    “Oh yeah, and don’t die.”
    “Very funny.”
    Dawes reappears with a vest. “I got this off a female detective.” He holds it up, looks at me, frowns. “It’s going to be big.”
    “They all are unless I get them custom.”
    He grins. “No height requirement, I take it, Agent Barrett?”
    I grab the vest from him with a scowl. “That’s Special Agent Barrett to you, Dawes.”
    The grin fades. “Well, be careful in there, Special Agent Barrett.”
    “If I was going to be careful, I wouldn’t go in there at all.”
    “Even so.”
    Even so, I think. What a great turn of phrase. Short and sweet, but fraught (another great word) with meaning.
    You could die in there.
    Even so.

8
    I’M STANDING IN FRONT OF THE HOME’S OPEN FRONT DOOR. I’M sweating and scratchy in the ill-fitting body armor I’ve thrown over my shirt. I have my Glock out and ready. The day is moving toward dusk, shadows are starting to stretch, and my heart is pounding like a drummer on speed.
    I glance back at the law-enforcement presence behind me.
    Barricades have been erected in front of the home, starting at the street. I count four patrol cars and the SWAT van. The uniforms are standing guard at the barricades, ready to speak one phrase, and one phrase only: “Go away.” The SWAT team waits inside the perimeter, a deadly group of six, black helmets gleaming. The lights on the patrol cars are all on, and they’re trained on the house.
    On me.
    Law enforcement is a dirty job. It’s about body fluids, decay, and people at their worst. It’s about life and death decisions made with too little information. The most trained cop or agent is still never trained enough to deal with everything. When crisis comes (and it
always
comes), it’s often solved the way we’re solving it now: an agent with a two-week class in hostage negotiation, called away from her vacation, wearing a loose-fitting Kevlar vest, doubting her ability to do what she’s about to do. In other words, we do our best with what we have.
    I shut it all out and peer through the door.
    A few drops of sweat pop out on my forehead. Salty pearls.
    It’s a newer home for this area, a two-story with a stucco and wood exterior, topped by a clay-tile roof. Classic Southern California. It looks well cared for, possibly repainted in the last few years. Not huge, the owners weren’t rich, but nice enough. A middle-class family home not trying to be anything else.
    “Sarah?” I call in. “It’s Smoky Barrett, honey. You asked to see me, and I’m here.”
    No answer.
    “I’m going to come in to see you, Sarah. I just want to talk to you. To find out what’s going on.” I pause. “I know you have a gun, honey. I need you to know that I have one too, and that I’m going to have it out. Don’t be scared when you see it. I’m not going to shoot you.”
    I wait, and again, there’s no answer.
    I sigh and curse and try to think of a reason to keep from walking into this house. Nothing comes to mind. Some part of me doesn’t want anything to come to mind. This is a not-so-secret truth of law enforcement: These moments are terrifying, but they are also when you feel most alive. I feel it now, adrenaline and endorphins, fear and euphoria. Wonderful and awful and addictive.
    “I’m coming in now, Sarah. Don’t shoot me or yourself, okay?” I’m going for light humor, I come off sounding nervous. Which I am.
    I squeeze the gun butt, take a deep breath, and walk through the front door.
    The first thing I smell is murder.
    A writer asked me once what murder smells like. He was looking for material for a book he was writing, some authenticity.
    “It’s the blood,” I’d said. “Death stinks, but when you smell blood more than anything else, you’re usually smelling murder.”
    He’d asked me